Chapter Text
Segador Flashback: Concrete Operations
Tuesday May 22, 2029: 5:22 p.m. - one of the Staples Center parking lots, downtown Los Angeles, California
The sky above them is a hazy pink dusted with blue at the edges, soft paintbrush clouds, gilded a rosy bronze at the western edge. There are squatty buildings around them, on the nearby streets, stout little things compared to the skyscrapers up just a few blocks. All around them are people, moving in loud, happy chatter, wearing shades of purple and yellow and gold and white, lots of bright colors that dance and move in between the parked cars, but he -
He is up high.
He is tall like this, sitting on his father’s shoulders.
Gabriel is taller than anyone here.
Almost tall enough to reach the clouds.
He is five - almost six, that’s important - and he is tall like this.
“Alright, Gabrielito,” comes the easy, breezy voice beneath him, and Gabriel drums his fingers on his father’s head, fingers tapping through short, dark curls. In response, Eddie Reyes jumps slightly, hoisting his shoulders even higher, causing Gabriel to squeak and giggle and his mother, Isabella Reyes, to give a tense sigh behind them.
“It’s quiz time, Gabrielito,” Eddie says as they join the crowd of people moving to the big, rounded building, lit up with purple and yellow lights. His father shifts around a car a little as he asks teasingly, “Who are we rooting for tonight, mijo?”
“The Lakers!” Gabriel answers, pat-pat-patting at his father’s short, brown hair, so curly. On the left side of his father, ten-year-old Rafael groans, “Don’t give him such an easy question. Even Maria could answer that.”
“Nuh-uh!” Gabriel pouts down at his half-brother, who flicks a twisted sneer back at him. The five-year-old slumps a little on his dad’s head, grumbling, “Maria is just a baby. She doesn’t know nothing.”
“Anything,” his seven-year-old sister Veronica corrects him on the other side of their father. Gabriel pouts down at her next, as she smirks, “Gabo doesn’t know much - can’t even read right.”
“Can too -” Gabriel starts to protest but Isabella titters behind them, “You kids behave. And don’t tease your brother.”
“I wasn’t teasing him, Mamá,” Veronica wisecracks, her dark curls bouncing with each prouncy step as she skips along beside her father-younger-brother hybrid tall person, “I was teaching him!”
“You can’t teach me nothing because you don’t know anything either,” Gabriel snaps right back, squirming slightly, trying to reach down to whamp at her, but Eddie jumps a bit again, chiding him a little more sternly, “Gabo, be nice.”
“I can read,” Gabriel mutters sourly, plopping his chin on his dad’s head, curls poofing up around him slightly. The five-year-old adds softly, “The letters look a li’l funny.”
“I know, Gabo, I know,” Eddie says sympathetically, patting at his right leg before his father swings his voice back into pre-game mode, “But you got the question right! That means you get another question!”
Rafael groans slightly in that way that he does sometimes, when things seem to annoy him for no good reason, but Gabriel focuses on his father, who asks him clearly, “So who are the Lakers playing today?”
“Um...another purple team,” Gabriel starts to answer, but Veronica giggles at his half-response and the five-year-old sends her another squinty glare. His sister taunts, “He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know!”
“I do too!” Gabriel yells, “I don’t remember! I know it!”
“C’mon, Gabito,” Eddie says as they start to really get closer to the arena, to where the crowds start to grow dense and muddled around them. But Gabriel stays up high, stays above everyone. Eddie’s left hand locks around his ankle a little more firmly as his father’s right hand points to a hanging banner in black, silver, and purple, asking, “What does that say there?”
“Um…” Gabriel hums, staring up at it. There’s a long, weird word at the top and he doesn’t like how it looks, it looks funny to him, but there’s a shorter, bolder word saying -
“Um...Ki-ings,” Gabriel says slowly, sounding out each letter, before affirming in a stronger, more confident tone, “Kings!”
“¿Qué es ‘Kings’ en español?” Eddie asks his second son, and Gabriel lifts his arms up as he cheers, “Reyes!”
But then the five-year-old stops, frowning as he murmurs, “Papá, why don’t we root for them?”
“We can’t root for them, Gabrielito - they’re trying to beat the Lakers in the playoffs,” Eddie explains, as if the words make sense. Gabriel scowls a little more, saying, “But they’re Kings, and we’re kings -”
“You can’t root for a team just based on the name,” Rafael mutters sourly as they shuffle towards the entrance of the arena with the crowd. His brother huffs, “Besides, the Kings are a shitty team -”
“Language!” Isabella snaps at him sharply, causing the one-year-old Maria to shift and squirm, crying slightly in her arms. Isabella coos at the child, before murmuring sternly to her step-son, “Rafael Miguel Reyes, how many times do I have to tell you to mind your manners?”
“Everyone swears at school, Mom,” Rafael rebukes tartly but Eddie rumbles at him with a touch more verve to his usually kind voice, “Are we at school right now?”
“...No,” Rafael sighs, and Eddie states with a certain finality, “Then you will listen to your mother.”
Rafael makes a face that Gabriel doesn’t really understand, but Eddie’s voice quickly draws his attention as his father says, “Gabo, we can’t root for the Kings because the Lakers are our team. And besides -”
Eddie leans his head back, causing Gabriel to stare down at him solemnly, as his father beams an upside-down smile, all bright and bold even as the slowly-setting sun causes his already deep, rich-toned face to be cast in growing shadows and gilded, rose light:
“There’s another Kings team here in L.A. - I’ll take you to one of their games, okay?”
“Hmmm,” Gabriel hums, before grinning right back, “Okay, Papá!”
---------
Sharpshooter: Ideation
Wednesday, May 22, 2058: 10:35 a.m. - Strike-Commander Morrison’s personal office, Watchpoint: Geneva
Just do it.
Jesse fidgets with the watch on his right wrist - it’s still a li’l too slack, still a li’l too loose, still a size too big - but he refuses to take it off. First real Christmas gift in years that wasn’t a gun, or a set of ammo, or a new tattoo that he hadn’t really wanted, or a case of cheapass beer when Terry “forgot.” He still feels a li’l uncomfortable with everything - with the new, clean clothes, and the boots and pants that actually fit, and the ability to get food from any fridge in the Watchpoint - any Watchpoint - and the happy, cheerful jokes and the easy laughter.
The eighteen-year-old is outside of Jack’s office - the smaller one, not the “big new one” they’re trying to stick him in, now that everyone is in the process of reorganizing the Commanders and “shifting the hierarchy around,” or so the official UN people say. Jack keeps saying the “smaller, old SIC one still works perfectly fine,” that he doesn’t need a big fancy office “with a view to die for” or anything else, but Gabriel keeps joking that Jack “needs a bigger room to stick all the medals and awards in,” needs a bigger office to “contain all his goals and objectives and dreams” (“because Jack tends to dream too big,” Gabriel had added to Jesse with a knowing smirk before a folded paper airline with the words “Ur ass is too big” scrawled on it hit the boss peg in the beanie, causing Gabriel to laugh that bold, radiant laugh and Jesse to bury his face in his hands, embarrassed over the dumb commanders’ dumb, awkward flirting, the dumb idiots).
Just remembering the moment causes Jesse to grumble under his breath, makin’ him regret even coming out to this hallway with his dumb, stupid idea, and his dumb, stupid hope, and his dumb, stupid hat and why is everything dumb and stupid, so stupid, this is a real dumbass idea o’ yers, boy -
His hands pull at his face, at the short, choppy scruff of his goatee, at the small scab where he’d nicked himself with his razor this morning, when he’d been mullin’ over the dumb, stupid idea, and had felt smart, so smart, so brilliant, it had seemed like a stroke o’ genius until he’d bolted his dead ass down the hallway to this very door and realized -
He didn’t have
A damn clue
On how to make this idea work.
Pops will know what to do, just do it, just tell him, a small, fragile, slang-twanged voice whispers to him in the back of his head, urging him to press the button on the bright blue door and just open up and step into the office and just tell Jack his dumb, stupid idea, because Jack is great at making dumb, stupid ideas seem amazing and wonderful and not dumb or stupid at all -
Don’ be ridiculous.
Jesse freezes, his right hand hovering over the door button, as a cold, chilled, hard-edged voice drawls at him from his still uncomfortable core.
A voice like steel, solid and strong but bitter, sharp as icicles, sharp as a shock of fusion to raw skin -
What kinda dumbass thinks Gabriel fucking Reyes - ex-commander of Overwatch, greatest military hero of yer lifetime - would want a dumbass gift like that from you, o’ all people? The voice rolls through Jesse’s head like a quiet, freezing storm, broken not with ragged lightning or harsh thunder, but instead with a steady, frustratingly even pace that moves like a sinister flood through the desert.
He don’ need this paltry present from you, boy - you owe him yer weight in blood and bullets, ain’t no gift gonna level that debt.
That… Jesse thinks, summin’ up his courage as he tries to push back against the voice of quiet, sweeping storms and broken promises and bad blood, That ain’t what this is for! This is...just ta thank him! Fer being nice!
Boy, he don’ need nice from you - the deadlocked part of Jesse’s soul begins to chide him, roiling into a burn when -
Something solid and cotton-y slams into Jesse’s face.
“Oomph,” both Jesse and the solid person huff, and Jesse briefly sees nothing but grey fabric and a slightly blonde-stubbled chin before strong hands grip at his shoulders and wrassle them apart, that deep, ocean-tide voice calling out with shock, “Jesse??”
“Oh, uh, hey, Pops,” Jesse stammers, still slightly stunned by Jack as the new Strike-Commander manages to push them apart a li’l, straightening Jesse’ slackened form. Jack’s bright, if confused face swims into view, those bold, blue eyes searching over Jesse’s face - technically only a few inches shorter than the supersoldier himself (“if you’d just stand up a little straighter,” Jesse can practically hear Gabriel chide him as Jack chuckles in the background) - with utter concern and a little bit of dismay.
“You okay, kid?” Jack asks, a slightly crooked smile gracing that Steve Rogers face, as he chuckles, “Sorry, I really didn’t see you there - I’m on my way to talk to Reinhardt about this mission in Australia and - Jesse, what’s wrong?”
In an instant
Jack has seen through Jesse’s facade
No matter how much he tries to deadlock his face
Seems like Jack and Gabriel can read him like an open book -
“Jesse, son, are you okay?” Jack asks again, his smile sliding off his face and Jesse scowls briefly before -
Stupid stupid stupid stupid, you can’t make the new Strike-Commander worry like that, ya fresh kinda dumbass, Jesse snarls at himself, He don’ got time for yer bullshit, ya can’t just drop this shit on him -
Jesse beams a big, wide, flashy smile, saying out as smooth as he can, “Ah, yeah, sorry, viejo, just had a thought, ain’t nothing important though -”
“Oh,” Jack grins back, stepping aside to gesture to his office, “I’m not in a rush, Jesse - c’mon in, I’ll listen -”
“Ah, nah,” Jesse says, shoving his hands in his pockets, scuffing the toe of a boot at the floor as he tries to smile back, “It really ain’t worth yer time, Commander -”
“Well, sure it is, Jesse,” Jack replies, giving him one of the most genuine, warm smiles Jesse thinks anyone’s ever turned towards him. The commander tilts his head a li’l, chuckling, “I always like hearing what you have to say, kid.”
Oh no, Jesse thinks, feeling despair sink into the pit of his stomach.
Oh no, I trust him -
“It’s a dumb gift idea.”
The words are out of Jesse’s mouth before he can stop himself.
But Jack is hardly fazed by Jesse’s apparent shock and lack of tact - there’s a calm, firm hand on Jesse’s back, patting him reassuringly as Jack takes a step back into his office, saying cheerfully, “A gift for who? Angela?”
“What - no, what, why,” Jesse states, giving Jack a quizzical, yet deadpan stare, and the commander shrugs, chuckling, “Just thought I’d take a guess - wait.”
Jack’s face deepens into a concerned and slightly skeptical scowl as he mutters, “It’s not a gift for Torbjörn, is it? I’m still mad he got you that BAMF belt buckle for Christmas.”
“...What’s wrong with the belt buckle,” Jesse asks, squinting at Jack real hard as he steps into the office, pouting slightly as he squares up against the commander, muttering tartly, “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a li’l flair, Pops.”
“There’s ‘flair’ and then there’s ‘poor taste,’ Jesse,” Jack retorts, snapping the button on the door to slide it shut. The commander sighs as he returns to his desk, plopping himself in the chair behind the monitors and holo-projections of his computer, “The assistant to the Commander of Blackwatch should try to look a little more presentable -”
“Papito wears a hoodie, Pops,” Jesse grumbles, tossing himself into one of the guest chairs across the desk, folding his arms as he adds with a slow, sugar contemplation, “And a beanie.”
“Look, I’ve never been able to control how Gabe dresses,” Jack admits, shrugging slightly, before he points at Jesse with a smirk, “But I’d hate for you to pick up on his bad habits.”
“Trust me,” Jesse chuckles, before gesturing at his chest and legs, saying smugly, “The unfashionable boss ain’t responsible for this avante garde freshness.”
Jack gives him a long, thousand-yard look before muttering, “So about this gift.”
Oh.
Right.
That.
“I, uh,” Jesse starts and stops, starts and stops, fidgeting with the watch on his wrist - he doesn’t want to say that he hates it, he’s just a li’l uncomfortable with it, is all, he just hasn’t grown into it yet, he -
“Do you need that adjusted?” Jack asks suddenly, and Jesse startles back into the moment, stammering, “¿Qué?”
“The watch? I told Gabriel it was too big for you, he just kept saying that you’d grow into it,” Jack says, smiling faintly, and Jesse feels that same warm squeezing feeling around his chest that he’d felt when -
Two days before Christmas, 2057
“Giving you this a little early, okay, chico?” Gabriel says with a slight smirk, placing the small, cleanly-wrapped box on the coffee table. The commander leans back into the old couch, settling against Jack’s arm slung around his shoulders as the then-Second-in-commander adds on, “We wanted to give you this when you passed the GED but the last month has been really busy.”
“Aw, shoot, y’all didn’t hafta get me nothing,” Jesse mutters, picking up the present, eyeing it a touch suspiciously. It’s a reeeeeeal small box, too small to be a gun, could be some sort of ammo case or somethin’, some sort o’ new weapon or tool -
“What,” Gabriel states, quirking an eyebrow at Jesse as he continues, “We sure as shit were gonna get you something, kid. You did good on those tests.”
Oh.
“We’re just sorry we couldn’t also get you a real Christmas gift in time,” Jack chuckles, but Jesse notices how Gabriel’s right hand slips up to squeeze at Jack’s right, hanging off his shoulder. Jack grins brightly, “We’re thinking a trip to Disneyland with Mei and Fareeha might make up for that?”
“What,” Jesse half-asks, half-states, looking between them, the present feeling surprisingly, unbearably light in his hands. They’re in one of the small side rooms of the Reyes house - Gabriel’s childhood home, still owned by his parents - a surprisingly wide bungalow in central Los Angeles, decorated with good, delicious smells and bright, cheerful lights wafting through the house. There’s pleasant chatter from the kitchen just down the hall, a mix of English and Spanish being shared by far too many happy people in far too small a room, but the Reyes’s had welcomed Jesse with open arms and wide smiles and titterings of “Gabo, why aren’t you feeding him properly? Look at how skinny he is!” just a few days ago when the two commanders and their ramblin’, cowboy protege had rolled into town.
“...You don’...” Jesse starts and stops, starts and stops, searching between smug, gilded-bronze eyes and bright, open blue ones, shifting back and forth between Gabriel’s knowing smirk and Jack’s happy grin, and the eighteen-year-old had felt an utter loss for words to describe what he was feeling, a strange warm feeling snaking around his chest and -
“You don’ hafta - I don’ need ta see Disneyland - I’m eighteen, I dun need ta -” Jesse stammers, but Gabriel just beams that shit-eating grin wider, his light-dark eyes twinkling with mischief as he mutters, “You should open the gift before you hurt yourself, kid.”
Jesse continues to look between them, before he shifts his gaze to the li’l box in his hands, so clean and nice and comfortable and -
Gingerly, he picks at the tape on one of the sides, prying it open carefully and cautiously before Gabriel chuckles, “It ain’t made of glass, Jesse - you can tear into it -”
“But the paper is real pretty.”
The words are out of Jesse’s mouth before he can stop himself.
The sound of silence is all that answers him.
That ain’t normal, the steel-cut voice in his head reminds him, You ain’t being normal.
Jesse glances up in horror, realizing he must’ve made a mistake when -
There are mirrored looks of bittersweet happiness on the two commanders’ faces, Gabriel slumping his mouth against his left hand contemplatively, his right hand lifted still, fingers entwined with Jack’s right. Jack’s left hand is curled into a fist, pressed against his mouth, but his eyes are misted with a strange haze and -
“I, uh…” Jesse stutters, not sure what to do with this emotion swelling in his heart, “I ain’t got a present in a long time. Not a real one, like all wrapped pretty like this. Uh…”
“Just - just open it,” Gabriel barks out hoarsely, his voice cracking a little, but Jesse notices how his right hand squeezes Jack’s again. Jesse looks back at the li’l box in his hands, before prying off the rest of the tape and easing the box out of the paper and -
He stares hard at the logo, before muttering, “...Axiom? Ain’t they expensive?”
“You don’t even know what it is yet,” Jack laughs lightly, his deep voice rumbling a little, “And you’re already judging it?”
“No, ain’t judging, just...y’all didn’t hafta spend this,” Jesse murmurs, cracking the box open with a scowl and -
He freezes.
Time freezes.
Which is a slight irony, because the watch inside the box is sleek and slick, a soft square with rounded edges, a smooth holo-screen face projecting a slim digital clock, but as Jesse looks at it, the screen shifts to a more standard datapad interface, only in miniature.
Jesse swallows his heart.
“An Axiom datawatch,” Jack says happily as Gabriel adds with a clear smirk to his words, “Cause you’re real bad at telling time and so we can call you when you inevitably get lost at Disneyland tomorrow.”
“It’s…” Jesse starts. And stops. Starts. And -
“It’s not ammo,” he whispers, staring at it with a slow, syrupy reverence, his hands are shaking a li’l, the most expensive things he’s ever held are Peacekeeper and several packs of cocaine and disabled fusion cores, stuffed into bundles on his body as he demanded money from whatever distributor Deadlock had negotiated with -
This is the most expensive thing he’s ever held -
And it’s not the watch.
It’s a strange, warm, comfortable feeling of richness settling in around his heart as
“The fuck - why would we give you ammo?” Gabriel asks with utter confusion in his voice - drifting across Jesse’s consciousness like the Christmas lights everywhere - as Jack laughs as bright as the good, delicious smells in the house, “We wanted to give you a nice gift for passing the GEDs!”
“Good job on your tests, kid,” Gabriel adds with a sunshiny grin and Jack is beaming too and -
“Gabe also keeps saying that you’d lose your datapad if ‘it isn’t strapped to your wrist,’” Jack continues, chuckling at the faint humor of his partner ghosting in the words. Jesse blinks a few times, remembering where he is, glancing at the watch on his wrist, the clock interface flashing at him briefly as he grounds himself on the time.
10:38 a.m.
“But we can get the strap adjusted,” Jack offers, grinning that sideways smile again, “Or we can just get Torb to drill an extra hole in the leather, give you another size to refit it to.”
“Nah, it’s...it’s good, Pops, really,” Jesse replies, shifting it against his wrist slightly before -
10:39 a.m.
He lets the time ground him.
Just do it.
He won’t get mad.
He’ll listen to you.
Jesse heaves a heavy, expensive sigh, before sitting up a li’l straighter, a li’l taller as he squares his gaze against Jack’s, saying as confidently as he can muster:
“I wanna...I wanna get Gabriel a gift fer Father’s Day.”
A look of amazed, wowed shock blooms openly on Jack’s face before the commander murmurs, “Wasn’t expecting that one, that’s for sure. You don’t have to get him anything, Jesse - your savings are for you -”
“I...I know that, Jack,” Jesse replies, and shit, he shouldn’t’ve cut the commander off like that, what’s wrong with him, why does he keep doing that -
But Jack just folds his hands on his desk and gives Jesse a patient, understanding smile, saying calmly, “If you promise me it won’t be too expensive, I’ll help you get a gift for Gabriel.”
Jesse freezes, flinching slightly at the conditions and clauses in the sentence, wondering if he can get around that first part because -
The strange, warm, comfortable feeling of richness lingers around his heart and wrist -
It’s the most expensive thing he’s ever held -
“...I mean,” Jesse starts and Jack frowns slightly, asking slowly, “Jesse, that money is for your future -”
“In case ya fergot, Pops, I work here,” Jesse grumbles and Jack outright scowls, his voice dipping low into that eternal ‘I’m not your father, but I will go parental on your ass’ tone that Strike Commander John Morrison seems to be capable of channeling at the drop of a hat:
“I have never forgotten that you work here, Jesse - if anything, I am incapable of forgetting that we’ve been putting an eighteen-year-old’s life on the line for Overwatch and Blackwatch.”
Jesse starts to say something. Stops. Feels that strange, warm, comfortable feeling slip through his ribs again as Jack leans back in his chair, grumbling mainly to himself, “But when Gabriel and Ana are set on something - especially set on something together - they’re impossible to deal with. I’d like nothing more than to send you to college, but when all three of you insist you can work here -”
“I belong here,” Jesse retorts sharply, mirroring Jack’s motion as he folds his arms across his chest, snapping, “I ain’t goin’ nowhere -”
“That’s not what I mean, Jesse, and you know it,” Jack states, with a touch of sharpness to his tone, “Gabriel and I would never force you to leave, but college is important -”
“Ain’t so important in the post-apocalypse, Pops,” Jesse retorts with a smug smirk, and Jack rubs a hand to his forehead, growling slightly, “I just want you to have the ability to choose your industry, Jesse - what if you really like working with computers? Or writing articles?”
“I chose my industry at fourteen.”
The words are out of Jesse’s mouth before he can stop himself.
Jack turns his ocean-tide gaze - soft at the edges with the sunlight drifting in behind him - and there, there is that bittersweet look that he’d had, two days before Christmas, when Jesse had mentioned how pretty the wrapping paper was and -
“I belong here,” Jesse says again, only not so harshly, not so defensively, a more even, level, comfortable tone to his words. There’s a squeezing warmth around his heart as he murmurs slowly, in syrupy words, “I ain’t good at much, Pops - I really only got one natural gift and that’s putting bullets in people so I might as well do it in service o’ the people who keep me outta jail.”
“That’s not true.”
Jesse glowers a little at Jack but Jack -
Jack just smiles a soft, bittersweet happiness and Jesse starts and stops. Starts and stops.
“You’re gifted at many things, Jesse,” Jack says kindly, warmly, comfortably, “You passed your GEDs even though you only studied for them for two months. You helped Angela improve her English. You taught Mei how to aim her endothermic blaster more evenly, which is something that not even Ana could do. You’re the only person Fareeha really trusts, and getting a twelve-year-old to believe in you is a much bigger deal than you think. You get Mirembe to laugh when no one else can and Mina keeps saying you’re a big help around here.”
Jesse tries to ground himself on the time but -
“You’re very good at understanding tactics - Gabriel and Ana have nothing but good things to say about you there. And you pick up languages really quickly - I keep telling you that you’d get Italian and French really fast if you try,” Jack continues, before grinning widely, brightly, like water reflecting sunlight, the rays of the sun behind him catching him in a backlit glow as he beams:
“We’re all very proud of you, Jesse, for everything you do - Gabriel and I especially.”
Jesse chokes a li’l on the words caught in his throat.
Jack returns to sitting up straight in his chair, pulling himself back to his desk as he smiles kindly, “I just want you to know that we’re proud of you for all that you do, not just helping Gabriel on missions. You do a lot of good around here, Jesse, and if you ever want to try another division, Gabriel and I will be happy to help you switch -”
“Shotguns.”
The word is out of Jesse’s mouth before he can stop himself.
Jack frowns a li’l, before quirking an eyebrow and Jesse stammers out, “I wanna get Gabriel better shotguns.”
Real dumbass idea, real stupid, dumbass idea -
“Why do you want to do that?” Jack asks calmly, looking at him with a patient steady gaze, folding his hands on the desk as he tilts his head slightly, adding, “Gabriel’s SEP shotguns are still working just fine -”
“He’s burnin’ ‘em out.”
Jack scowls and Jesse feels his heart hammerin’ in his chest, and he swallows a gulp of anxious fear as he fidgets with his watch, trying his hardest to sum up his courage and -
“Gabriel’s shotguns burn out frequently,” Jack says, as he reaches down and pulls out his datapad, tapping a code into the lock screen before opening a file system. The commander continues, “We have replaced parts of the shotguns rather frequently, especially the barrels - we replace them when the plasma pulse shots begin to warp the tungsten. Torb has him slotted for regular maintenance, but you think we should move that up?”
Jesse chews on his fear a li’l, trying to warm it into a comfortable mush in his spirit as he murmurs, a li’l hesitantly:
“Nah, not maintenance - new guns entirely.”
Jack looks up from his datapad and raises an eyebrow, asking with a slight hum to his words, “New guns entirely? Why’s that?”
Just do it.
Just tell him.
Jesse drums slightly on the watch, feeling the fear settle low, but the warm, comfortable, expensive feeling rises to the top and -
“Tungsten’s a fine metal, ‘bout as good as ya need fer cold plasma,” Jesse murmurs slowly, thinking back on the different plasma and fusion guns he’s handled, the parts he’s worked on, fixing up old SEP-era Crisis guns that Deadlock had managed to get a hold of. Jesse frowns, adding, “Tungsten’s still gonna get warped by the cold plasma, but all rifles get worn down, so it’s par fer the course.”
He stares hard into the grains of time, eyes unfocusing a li’l, seeing the rare SEP plasma-slag shotgun the gang had managed to get just before the Overwatch Strike raid, and the cowboy mutters low, “The problem with the shotguns ain’t the tungsten specifically, but the FRAG-21 shots. SEP was purely experimental, yeah?”
Jack sits up a little straighter, folds his hands on the desk, watches Jesse with a keen, blue-sky focus, answering lowly, “That’s right. None of the weapons were meant to survive the Crisis, as far as I know. The Army and CIA tried their hardest to round them up after the war ended, but obviously that went about as well as any other CIA-clean-up mission. Deadlock was the biggest network trading the SEP guns, but there were others, all across America and Mexico. If Gabriel’s hypothesis is correct, they may have jumped the ocean too.”
“Yeah, but what y’all are missin’ is that ain’t no one wanna buy the SEP guns fer using,” Jesse states, folding his arms across his chest, “They just wanna buy ‘em to take ‘em apart and remodel a next gen o’ the guns. The actual guns themselves are way too dangerous.”
Jack frowns as he thinks it over, drumming his fingers on the desk, and Jesse takes the still but interested silence as his cue to continue, saying:
“Early Crisis guns like that require a lotta maintenance, far too much fer what they’re actually worth. Why buy an illegal SEP plasma gun made o’ warped tungsten ‘n badly insulated steel ‘n fiberglass when ya can get same quality shot with a newer Volskaya gravity gun or a WM custom plasma gun?”
Jack watches him quietly, calmly, as Jesse nods slightly, saying, “Every post-Crisis plasma gun is gettin’ made o’ tantalum carbide or hafnium carbide or even a tantalum-hafnium-carbide combo. Putting a coatin’ of the ceramic fiberglass inside barrels, on the hammer, and on the pistons prevents the plasma from warping the underlying tantalum-tungsten structures too badly. Extends both the life o’ the parts and the gun as a whole.”
Jack nods along a little, before murmuring, “But adding even a few coatings is going to change some of the gun’s proportions and fit.”
“Right,” Jesse agrees, “And yer gonna need to overhaul the hammer and pistons too - maybe even remake the gun with a fiberglass-coated shell on the inside. Helps regulate the overall side effects of the plasma thermolysis from the FRAG-21 shots on the whole gun.”
Jack stares at him long and steady for a moment before breaking into a deep grin, asking, “You want to make the SEP Plasma-Slag Shotguns 2.0?”
“...In theory,” Jesse mutters before he grins back, “But I was kinda hopin’ ta give ‘em a better name. Somethin’ a li’l more fittin’”
“I’m a little concerned with your ideas on that,” Jack starts to say dryly, but
The words are out of Jesse’s mouth before he can stop himself:
“The Hellfire Shotguns.”
Jack immediately stops, his eyes growing wide and Jesse fears he’s done it, he’s crossed a line this time, the name’s real stupid, real dumb, real dumbass -
Jack suddenly throws his head back and lets out a low, rumbling, thunderstorm laugh:
“Holy shit, Jesse - you’re gonna feed right into Gabriel’s ego with that kinda attitude!”
Jesse breathes a long, heavy sigh, sputtering, “So it’s alright??”
“Alright?? It’s a brilliant idea!” Jack beams at him, as bright as light reflecting off water, and his smile seems to shimmer and shine as he rises, grinning at his self-styled son as he says, “C’mon - let’s get you to Torb’s workshop. He’s gonna get a massive kick out of this!”
---------
Soldado Flashback: Formal Operations
Tuesday, February 18, 2037: 3:43 p.m. - the Morrison household, a few miles south of Bloomington, Indiana
Jack breathes a long, heavy sigh as he enters the stiff warmth of the house, the feeling familiar and yet slightly stifling all at once. The air outside had been a strange mix of crisply cool - chilled as all winters are - but oddly muggy, strangely humid, largely due to the thick grey clouds overhead and the snow-slush melting into muddy puddles all across the fields south of Bloomington. The snow doesn’t seem to want to stick this year, sloughing off into little rivulets of water and ice during daylight hours before the temperature drop of the night refreezes everything. Once a week, another quick storm seems to blow through, recoating everything, causing the process to start all over again.
Makes Jack feel a little strange - an unsettling halfness, as though the world does not fully want to engage in winter, but isn’t ready for spring.
An uncanny time of the year.
An odd part of life.
His birthday.
Worst gift I got today was an extra hour of math homework, the eleven-year-old grumbles to himself, adjusting his backpack on his shoulder as he slips his snow-slush-damp boots onto the shoe shelf by the door (he’d tugged them off on the porch outside, as his mother always wanted them to do - “don’t track dirt in the house”). Jack takes several steps in through the hall, heading to the staircase just slightly off-set as he calls out, “Mom, we’re home!”
“She’s prolly out at the Lopez’s,” Peter says, entering the house behind him. His fourteen-year-old brother also drops his boots by the shoe shelf, muttering hoarsely, “Dad said yesterday they were having some problems in their greenhouse.”
“Oh right,” Jack murmurs, mainly to himself - don’t be disappointed, a voice chides him, You know saving the lettuce is important. Jack sighs again, another heavy, slow roll of his lungs that feels slightly like suffocating but that’s -
That’s just how things are.
Jack starts up the stairs, fingers tracing up the worn bannister, skipping the third step that squeaks too loud. The Morrison house is a surprisingly narrow thing - tall like them, three stories at kinda odd intervals, built of oak that’s at least a hundred years old now, white coat of paint on the walls, a half-and-half blend of light and dark, old and new, winter and spring. It had housed three or four generations of them, or something like that, grown through the decades with little room add-ons and a full garage-barn off to the side, to the point where even though it wasn’t nearly as massive as some of the other homesteads out in the rural farming community, it still felt
Entirely too big
On days like today.
It always felt too empty on his birthday.
But that’s what he gets for being born on a school day - his friends had given him candy at lunch and a snowball fight during recess where they had shouted and play-fought until their lungs had burned, but the best gift had been when Tom and José had given him their rare Pokemon - a retro Deoxys and Mew - named “birthday” and “HAPPY” which had shown up in his PokeMail inbox out of order, causing Jack to snort and laugh and spit an M&M halfway across the cafeteria as his friends had howled with laughter -
But here, in the house that is entirely too big for a family of four so rarely home together
Those feelings linger like the snow slush
Not sure if they should be something tangible or run off into watery mush.
Jack heads to his left, turning into the bedroom hallway, trudging to his room at the far end. Even with the white walls, the murky sky casts long, drawn shadows across everything, so that even flicking on the lights barely penetrates the strange, unraveling feeling of being constrained. Jack enters his bedroom, slugging his backpack by his desk and slumping into the chair. The windows in his room face south, which he likes in the summer because they catch the sunlight all day, from the dim, pastel dawn to the east to the oil-painted hues of the sunset in the west, when all he can see is stalks of corn growing and a sky that floods with color and sunlight and stormclouds.
But in winter, everything is duller, everything darker, coated in half-light, half-darkness, half-snow, half-slush, chilled yet muggy.
On days like today
Days where the house feels entirely too big
Days where he feels a little claustrophobic
Days like every birthday he’s ever experienced
He wishes he could be somewhere where the sun always shines
And the moon is always bright in blue-velvet night skies.
Jack taps at the power button on his datapad, sorting through his homework in his head, deciding which one he wants to do first, when a shadow appears in his doorway. The boy glances up to see Peter, blue eyes deceptively bright in the half-shadows, blonde hair unruly under the rumpled beanie, giving Jack the same sly, crooked grin that both brothers share as he mutters, “Heard you had a shit birthday.”
“It...could’ve been worse,” Jack admits, swiveling his chair towards Peter, and the younger boy grins, “Got some event-only Pokemon from Tom and José, so that was cool -”
“Neeeeerd,” Peter groans and Jack makes a tart face before sneering, “I don’t deserve this today, Peter -”
“Privileges of being the older brother to a nerdy little one,” Peter says smugly, before lightly tossing something to Jack, who jumps slightly as he catches it. Peter grins, “I get to treat you like shit any time of the year, Jack - don’t matter what day it is.”
“I think that just makes you a bad brother,” Jack mutters, turning the object over in his hands. It’s a badly wrapped present of some sort, a weirdly long, angular plastic thing, and the younger boy frowns briefly before lifting his head and looking at his smug brother with awe.
“...You got me something?” Jack asks, slightly shocked and confused because he doesn’t really remember the last time Peter actually got him something, something real, something tangible. Peter chuckles a little, “Someone has to get you something that’s actually cool for once. Who better than me?”
“I can think of a lot of people cooler than you,” Jack retorts, prying the paper open, and Peter grumbles, “Looks like this is the last cool thing I get you, you li’l shit.”
Jack pulls the paper away, staring for a long, half-moment before -
“What,” the younger brother half-states, half-asks, turning the long pocket knife - wrapped in safety-plastic, the slim metal catching in the half-light - over and over, his blue eyes tracing the slick blade, the wiry handle, the belt clip on the side. Jack looks up, eyes large and round with wonder as Peter beams at him - that trademark Morrison smile - laughing brightly:
“Happy birthday, Jack.”
“How did you even buy this??” Jack asks, half-excited, half-nervous, half-happy, a thrill of the unknown, hemmed with grey clouds and thunderstorms, edged with steel-tips and gilded sunlight - there’s a sense of adventure, an uncanny feeling of walking the boundary of small dangers. Peter smirks, folding his arms across his chest as he leans against the doorframe, “One of my older friends helped me get it. I know it’s kinda cheap but it’s all you’re gonna get this year -”
“You really got me a knife??” Jack stammers, swiveling around to open a desk drawer and pull out some scissors to hack away at the safety plastic. Peter scowls a little bit, muttering, “You gotta be careful with it, okay? Don’t show it at school, of course. And definitely don’t show Mom. Not for awhile.”
“I’m not stupid, Peter,” Jack says tartly, but his face immediately returns to a smile, he’s grinning, he can’t stop, it feels so stupid to get this worked up over something that probably only cost Peter’s shitty allowance, but still, it’s real, it’s tangible, it’s -
It catches small slivers of sunlight, light that Jack can’t even quite see with his eyes, light that makes the steel dance like water.
Jack grins up at Peter, knife in safety plastic in his left hand, scissors ready to shred the plastic to get to his gift in his right. The younger boy - so often out of place, so often out of sorts these days, so often caught in half-and-half - smiles brightly as he says:
“Thank you!”
Peter chuckles back, almost mirroring his bright smile as he replies:
“Don’t ever say I’m not a cool brother.”
---------
Sharpshooter: Blueprint
Wednesday, May 22, 2058: 1:14 p.m. - the Blackwatch hall of Watchpoint: Geneva
Jesse bolts down the slick steel hallways, moving as fast as his legs will carry him, bursting at the seams with excitement. Several agents and support techies yelp and launch themselves out of his way, and at one point he’s pretty sure he blurs past Ana, who shouts after him, “JESSE MCCREE, SLOW THE HELL DOWN -”
In heavy contrast, he definitely blurs past Reinhardt, whose booming laughter is all that echoes after him, calling out, “GO, JESSE, GO!”
Jesse skids slightly, clutching at his hat as he skitters to a stop in front of the mostly non-descript door, slamming the button that slips it open as he hollers, “BOSS -”
“What did I tell you about manners, kid?” Gabriel grumbles, looking up from a monitor to glower at Jesse as the eighteen-year-old leaps and skips into the new Blackwatch Commander office. The commander himself is tapping something furiously on a holo-projector screen, sliding windows and tabs around, mumbling something about “why does Zhou never organize her files right” as Jesse throws himself in the guest chair, grinning smugly until his boss looks up again, scowling outright.
“Get that Cheshire Cat smirk outta here - what do you want?” Gabriel asks suspiciously before adding, “And why the hell aren’t you working? We got a ton of stuff to move still - look at this disaster Mei left us in her classifieds. And I don’t even wanna think about how bad Rein’s look right now -”
“Wanna help me make a gift for Jack for Father’s Day?”
The words out of Jesse’s mouth make Gabriel dead stop.
Jesse’s grin gets even wider as Gabriel slowly leans back in his chair, resting a hand against his mouth as he shifts - it’s evident from the intensely hazy focus in his light brown eyes that he’s contemplating Jesse’s question quite seriously, the thought obviously churning in his head before -
“What kinda gift?” Gabriel asks, turning back towards Jesse and at this, the self-style cowboy suddenly frowns, admitting, “Uh...I was kinda hoping you would have some ideas.”
“...Really,” Gabriel mutters, looking unimpressed, “You come bursting into my office - not even knocking like common courtesy dictates - plaster that shit-eatin’ grin on your face, propose an idea, and that’s it?”
“Yeah, that’s bout as far as I got,” Jesse nods confidently and Gabriel sighs openly, muttering, “Dios dame paciencia - you gotta at least try, boy -”
“I was thinking like - what if we made him a new heavy pulse rifle?” Jesse offers, thinking it would make a great parallel to the shotguns he’s workin’ on fer Gabriel and -
“Are you outta your mind?” Gabriel asks, gawking slightly, “You want to make him a new heavy pulse rifle?? For Father’s Day?? Do you have any idea how much time and money that’s gonna cost? Not to mention needing Torbjörn’s help on all that. And the heavy pulse rifle was just serviced last month -”
“...Oh,” Jesse mumbles lamely, feelin’ his bubble burst, feelin’ like he’s a right dumbass for just assumin’ Gabriel would be on board with making Jack a new gun, stupid, so dumb, so -
“Jack doesn’t like big showy gifts,” Gabriel continues, softening slightly at the edges of his voice, his face relaxing back into contemplation and Jesse eases back a bit too, watching as his boss taps a finger across his lips. Gabriel almost always scowls when he’s thinkin’ hard, contemplatin’ ideas ‘n strategies ‘n plans, so Jesse can tell he ain’t mad, just focusin’ in on Jack, frowning deeply as he murmurs, “Jack’s great in the limelight - I think you know that now, after all that promotion stuff - but he hates being rewarded with gifts that are all talk and no walk. He even got real fidgety about the Strike-Commander coat, because he thought it was something really expensive and designer-made until I told him that I made it for him. Giving him a new heavy pulse rifle as a gift? He’d treat that like spun sugar on missions.”
But then Gabriel gives Jesse a smirk, saying smugly, “Though it’d be real funny seeing him try to treat that gun nice. He tends to use it like a battering ram a lot. Likes to knock people over the head with it.”
“Hmm...ain’t that true,” Jesse adds unhelpfully, but he hadn’t fully thought about it like that, though it made a ton of sense now that Gabriel had said it. Gabriel had always been the more...grandiose of the two commanders - Gabriel was fireworks and big, bright sunshine smiles, but Jack was a storm concealed in fluffy clouds, a churchbell voice hidden in sly smirks.
They’re kinda like their guns, Jesse thinks, nodding to himself, Gabriel got that showy, boom factor, but he got a lot o’ smoke ‘n mirrors - he got that wasteland killer vibe. Jack got the bigger gun, but it shoots smaller, but goes fer longer, got that secret plasma railgun that looks more sci-fi than post-apocalypse.
“Um, what about a sidearm?” Jesse suggests, because all he really knows is guns and everything about them, but Gabriel huffs slightly, muttering, “Nah. Jack carries that standard pistol with him just in case, but I’ve only seen him use it once since he got the heavy pulse rifle.”
“Uhhh, what about a new look?” Jesse adds and Gabriel gives him a confused stare, quirking an eyebrow and pouting slightly until Jesse elaborates, “He ain’t the most - uh - ‘fashion-forward’ dude in the world, papito.”
“Look at you,” Gabriel chuckles mischievously, “Sitting there in your cowboy boots and that ridiculous hat and that dumb belt buckle - I’ll never forgive Torb for getting that for you - judging Jack Morrison, highest ranking military commander in the world, for being a normal man.”
“He’s missin’ that badass factor,” Jesse says, shrugging slightly and Gabriel laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners, “Oh chico, you ain’t seen Jack Morrison in action if you think he’s not a badass. ...But I will admit he lacks some...aesthetic.”
“See? Let’s make him a new jacket or something,” Jesse says excited and Gabriel pouts, scowling again, “Ain’t no way I’m gonna be able to make something in time for Father’s Day. And I don’t trust your sewing skills for shit, kid.”
“Rude, I can sew,” Jesse protests, which gets Gabriel to give him a deadpan stare until the sharpshooter admits, “...Kinda?”
“...Moving on,” Gabriel sighs, rubbing at his forehead, “Jack still probably would get all weird about that. Best I can do is get him gifts on his birthday and Christmas. He’s the kind of guy who prefers a good trip somewhere than an actual object - and if you do get him something real, he prefers it to be...how should I say this - something meaningful?”
“Ain’t every present meaningful?” the cowboy mumbles, mulling it over and his boss shrugs, saying, “You’d think so, right? But he like...doesn’t appreciate trinkets, or paltry things, no matter how big or small. He’s got some...weird issues about gifts. I’ve tried to treat him to like nice gifts - a good pair of gloves, new boots, a new barbecue or whatever - and he’ll insist on returning them. Yet you get him his favorite brand of socks and he gets all sappy about it.”
“Huh,” Jesse says, mullin’ it over as Gabriel continues, eyes slightly glazed over as he recounts, “Jack loves pictures. Like, real hard copies of things. Posters too. But if you were to just get him a generic poster of, for example, Route 66, he wouldn’t care much. But if you took some sorta aesthetic picture of Deadlock Gorge yourself? He’d eat that up.”
“...I ain’t goin’ back there,” Jesse mumbles darkly and Gabriel suddenly snaps back to attention, saying quietly, “Oh - oh nah, kid, I didn’t mean it like that. Just that...well, if you gave him some meaningful pictures you took yourself, he’d love it. But it’s that sort of thing. Jack…”
Gabriel pauses, scowling over his words, obviously digging deep to find the right ones, before he says with a slow, gentle roll to his voice, like sunshine warmin’ water:
“Jack likes it when the gifts you give him mean something to you too. When it shows you put heart and soul into it.”
Jesse pouts now too, scowling over the words. He’d meant to give a meaningful gift, of course, he wasn’t that selfish, he thought anyways, but he hadn’t...quite thought about it like that, hadn’t really thought about what giving gifts meant to Jack instead of Gabriel. He twists the watch around his wrist a li’l, thinks a li’l, wondering how much of the watch was Jack’s odd but glimmery sense of meaningfulness and how much of it was Gabriel’s strong but gilded idea of purposefulness.
Wonderin’ if there was a real difference there, or if the two men had been so entwined that only they could figure out the boundaries between them -
Or if they were so entwined that they didn’t really want to.
Odd kinda thing, being that together, Jesse thinks, thoughts shifting back a li’l, back to Pa and Mamá working on parts of a then-brand new hover car together, sorting through the pieces, talking in quiet, even tones about how they could improve it, build something better, about where they would take it when they had the time, Pa’s voice thick with the brush of an Irish accent, Mamá’s laugh high like the bells and turquoise she sometimes wore, like the rhythm of the Tewa and Spanish she used to sing to him when he was real li’l -
1:20 p.m.
Jesse grounds himself on the time on the watch.
Focus, kid, he reminds himself, steeled with that voice that’s sometimes a touch too cold even for his own mind, Present for Jack. You can do this.
“Think he’d like it if I get him a fancy French press or sumthin’?” Jesse asks, only half-joking, but it gets a chuckle from Gabriel, who mutters, “I’d say he’d actually probably like that, except that Jack’s impatient as all hell with his coffee - he won’t have the emotional constraint to run a French press in the mornings.”
“What about a watch? Like what y’all got me?” Jesse offers and Gabriel nods but sighs at the same time, “It’s a good idea, but unfortunately, kid, Jack hates wearing things on his hands and wrists - he’s always afraid the heavy pulse rifle will misfire and shock him. Doesn’t matter how much of that specialized kevlar he’s got on, he gets burned often enough that the only metal things he wears directly on his skin are dog tags.”
Jesse hums a li’l, thinking to himself, until Gabriel, eyes a little bit unfocused, quietly murmurs:
“...You could make him a really nice pocket knife.”
“Oh!” Jesse says, perking up, grinning wildly, “That’s a good idea, boss, would you help me on it - what’s wrong?”
The words are out of Jesse’s mouth before he knows it.
Gabriel’s scowl has faded into something more...bittersweet, more sorrowful, a little lost, a new sort of tender emotion that Jesse ain’t seen on someone’s face in a long time. His boss’ eyes - normally bright with a liquid gold quickness - look somber and slower, like melting quick sand into glass. Gabriel breathes a long, heavy sigh, before turning his chair to square up more against the desk, folding his hands rather formally on it as he says with a gentle strength:
“Jack’s current pocket knife...means a lot to him. It isn’t worth much, not in real monetary value, and it’s old as hell at this point. I think the blade’s pretty dulled too - couldn’t cut for shit the last time I saw it.”
“So it was a gift, huh?” Jesse chuckles weakly, trying to smile, trying to be cheerful, trying to fight off a strange, warm, comfortable feeling around his heart, “Ya said it means a lot ta him, so it must’ve been a gift -”
“Yeah,” Gabriel smiles back faintly, “It was a gift to him from his brother, Peter. Gotta be like twenty years old now.”
“...Jesus,” Jesse mutters, scowling slightly, “It’s that important? And...wait, Jack has a brother?”
That bittersweet smile is back on Gabriel’s face and -
“Jack had a brother.”
Jesse feels a strange, unnamed emotion sink into the pit of his stomach. Gabriel grimaces a li’l, murmuring slow like syrup, “I never met Peter. He died when Jack was sixteen. Got drunk and then got high on too much meth and OD’ed.”
Gabriel looks Jesse dead in the eye and states with a quiet, soft, yet strong tone:
“Jack is the one who found him on the couch.”
Jesse freezes.
Time grinds to a halt.
Gabriel inhale-exhales, breathes another long, heavy sigh as he explains as kindly as he can, “I’m not trying to scare you, kid. But there’s no other gift that will ever be as meaningful to Jack as a pocket knife you put your time and effort into, put a little heart and soul and hard work into -”
“I can’t do that.”
The words are out of Jesse’s mouth before he can stop himself.
But the fear, the anxiety, the grind of time unraveling around him sinks around his heart and the dense, weighted, comfortable warmth hangs heavy around his wrist, it’s the most expensive thing he’s ever held, if he drops it it’ll break and shatter and no one will ever want him for family again -
“Jesse. Jesse, look at me.”
Jesse suffocates on air, but he forces himself to look at Gabriel, who gives him a patient, soft smile, murmuring, “Jesse, you’re okay, kid. You’re gonna be alright.”
“I can’t do that ta him, I can’t replace that, nothin’ can replace that -” Jesse stammers, struggling under the weight, he could never fix somethin’ like that, Jesse’s only good at one thing, only good at putting people into pain, putting people into the earth, just like he watched them bury his Mamá and then his Pa at fourteen, just like he watched the dealer who tried to short-change him fall dead in the dust, a bullet from his revolver in the man’s head, Jesse’s only got one thing that he’s worth at all and that’s being a misbegotten son to Death Himself -
Everything he touches breaks and shatters and -
Time itself breaks and shatters when he touches it.
“Jesse, you aren’t replacing the knife,” Gabriel’s voice is calm and cool, yet warm like gentle sunshine, and Jesse tries to ground himself on the sound of it. There’s a black gloved hand reaching out across the desk and -
Jesse’s hand is gripping it before he can stop himself.
He squeezes Gabriel’s hand, the watch on his wrist flashing a clockface briefly, as Gabriel gently says, “You aren’t replacing the knife, okay? You’re just giving him a new one. I just want you to know what the original knife means to Jack, okay? All you’re gonna do is give him a gift from your heart, okay? Show him your gratitude for how he’s helped you, right?”
“...Yeah,” Jesse murmurs, slowly pulling himself from the fear hanging around his neck, “Yeah, just...just wanna give him something meaningful.”
“He’ll appreciate it, Jesse, I promise. I’ll help you with the design. Torb will help you make it. You just put some of that clever genius of yours into it, and I know Jack will love it. Does that work?”
Gabriel’s voice is soothing, as soothing as soft bells of silver and beads carved of turquoise and sweet, clear laughter, as soothing as the rumble of a motorcycle engine and faint brushstrokes of Irish, as soothing as a serape made of thick cotton and heavy dye.
Jesse grounds himself on the feeling of the earth below his feet and the hand that pats his gently.
Jesse grounds himself on knowing there are two people in the earth below and the skies above who will help him.
Jesse grounds himself on knowing there are two other people who will stand beside a son of Death Himself and guide him
With patient smiles and smug smirks and deep, church bell laughter and bright, bold sunshine jokes
Out of a deadlocked heart
And into a world that needs more heroes
Heroes who are not just soldiers and commanders, rifles and shotguns
But who are watches that are meaningful and purposeful, and emotions that are worth their weight in gold.
Heroes he once jokingly called Pops and Papito
But names that have stuck deeper than he ever meant, names that are worth their weight in gold, names that are meaningful and purposeful.
“Yeah...yeah, that’ll work,” Jesse murmurs, before grinning as bright as the Southwestern sun at Gabriel, who smiles back kindly. And the self-styled son chuckles back:
“Thanks, Papito.”
----------
Segador|Soldado & Sharpshooter Flashback: Deadlocked
Saturday, February 10, 2057: 11:02 a.m. - Overwatch Strike Team temporary base, on the western side of Deadlock Gorge by the Panorama Diner
This is a platinum-certified disaster.
Is the dry, wisecracking thought that runs through Gabriel’s head as he assesses the pile of pitiful, paltryass people sitting handcuffed and hard-scuffed in front of him. A lot of them are moaning and groaning, some of them slumped over on their sides, lolling about like crabs knocked over, all of them decked out in patched-up biker leathers and skulls framed by wings and chains. Deadset in front of Gabriel sits a hefty bulldozer of a man, covered in tattoos across his dusty, tanned skin, but with a neatly-trimmed beard and several zigzags clipped into his short-shaved hair.
Nothing beats the cold-rolled, steel-cut look of pure hatred that graces his face though.
Despite the fact that he could very well be dishonorably discharged from Overwatch with this platinum-coated bullshit of a fuck up, Gabriel smirks down at him, squatting into a crouch in front of the man. Beside Gabriel, Ana tenses a little, murmuring warningly, “Don’t start anything, Gabriel -”
“You’re a real piece of shit,” the man - Terry Hernandez, leader of the main branch of the Deadlock Gang - snarls at Gabriel’s face, but the Overwatch Strike-Commander just grins back, leveling his star-dusted gaze at the broken pick-up truck of a human being. Gabriel chuckles darkly, “That sharpshooter of yours really deadeyed this mission of mine, but at least I get the satisfaction of putting your smarmy ass in a cage for life.”
Ana sighs loudly, murmuring something in Arabic to herself before she turns and strides away, calling out orders to other agents in the Strike Team. Terry’s dark gaze never leaves Gabriel’s and the gangbanger growls, “I hope you choke on a chode and die.”
“Eloquent,” Gabriel grins back, rising again before he gives Terry the widest shit-eating smirk he’s ever managed, taunting back:
“But Jack’s dick isn’t a chode and I ain’t choked on it yet.”
Terry and several other Deadlock members gawk slightly, but Gabriel turns on his heel and follows Ana back out to the cluster of temporary tents, gesturing to Mirembe as he orders, “When the truck comes, put them away. I never want to see them again.”
“Yessir,” she says, snapping a quick salute. Her fellow agents follow suit before they spread out and start prodding the arrested Deadlock members to stand.
Gabriel pauses for a moment, looking out at the chaos before him.
The Overwatch Strike Team has set up their post-mission base on the western side of the Deadlock Gorge, over by some old diner, just before the road turns north into the Caja del Rio plateau proper. Even with this time of day during this time of year, the sun rises high, casting down hard light and dry, chilled light for mid-winter. There are several make-shift tents set up, with groups of agents moving the crates of confiscated weapons, drugs, and supplies, taking tallies and recording the lot. Gabriel recognizes several of Jack’s medically-trained agents rushing about with first aid cases, many of them gesturing frantically to one tent in particular.
Gabriel sighs darkly, before his eyes drift to a more...separated, isolated tent closer to the diner.
Outside the isolated tent, Ana is approaching Reinhardt, who is shaking his head emphatically. The lieutenant hangs her head, rubbing at her forehead, and Gabriel can sense her headache from here. Under the crisp New Mexican winter sunlight, they’re both blue, so blue, in their new “standardized” Overwatch uniforms, as bright as the sharp New Mexican sky above them -
As bright as Jack’s furious, storm-studded eyes had been only moments ago
When the mission had ended
In what almost all of them would agree was “nearly an utter disaster.”
Time to kiss Overwatch goodbye, Gabriel thinks, forcing himself to walk towards the medical tent. He grimaces a little as he steps up to it, hesitating a moment before -
Jack practically rips the tent flap open
And nearly barrels straight into Gabriel.
“Joder, pinche pendejos, I’m going to fucking - HOLY SHIT,” Jack seethes for a moment until Gabriel’s stunned, wide-eyed face almost collides with his, and both the Strike-Commander and SIC stumble back a half-step, Gabriel reaching out instinctively to grab at Jack’s shoulders and stabilize him. Jack takes a half-second to reorient himself, before scowling as he mutters, “Gabe. Let go of me.”
“Jack, you need to calm down -” Gabriel starts to say but Jack just tears his left shoulder from Gabriel’s hand fiercely, snapping, “I need to calm down?? Eight agents are critically injured, Gabriel - one is going to die if we do not get her to a hospital now -”
“The airlift is set to arrive in a minute, Jack,” Gabriel says as calmly and as soothingly as he can, squeezing Jack’s right arm lightly but the SIC scowls darkly, growling, “The U.N. is going to demand answers for this, Commander Reyes, so I suggest you start trying to get them -”
“Are you ordering me to do something, Captain?” Gabriel asks, dropping his tone into the danger zone, a fierce glare flitting onto his normally charming features, and Jack -
Jack inhale-exhales
One-two
Inhale-exhales
Three-four
Before saying coldly, “It was a suggestion, sir.”
Gabriel stares hard at his partner, and Jack glares right back, star-dusted eyes with flakes of red and gold and amber melting fusion fires against sea-shimmering eyes of roiling, thunderous storms, before Gabriel eases back, muttering hoarsely, “Well, I suggest you take the next minute to cool your head, soldier.”
And then he leans in, whispering a little more tenderly, a little more kindly, in a voice that almost immediately soothes the edge and the fury in Jack:
“I need us to be together on this one, okay? Please? I need you to be my better half today, please?”
The words, the plea in Gabriel’s voice, the faintest touch of his soft, short beard hairs, the bittersweet, gentle ache between them - a mix of soft sorrow, uneasy recognition of how royally screwed they are, and their now fifteen years of long, entrenched shared history (friendship and loyalty and honesty and humor and love and blurred senses of self) - sweetens the blow in Jack’s heart, causing the SIC to sigh against his anger, his bitter, broken rage, to relent to a smoother, cooler feeling.
But still
Jack cannot trust his words not to betray him.
Inhale-exhale.
Jack nods one-two, a sharp, quick motion, but his feelings are already eased by Gabriel’s mere presence, by Gabriel’s gentle words, and there’s a quick squeeze of Gabriel’s left hand around Jack’s right, before the Strike-Commander turns and heads off towards the isolated containment tent. Jack lingers by the tent door, feeling the sunlight seeping down, somehow hard and cold, yet there are beams of a lighter, warmer sort, touching his face like a sweet caress before -
“Ahem.”
Jack jolts slightly, twisting to his left, where Singh stands, looking mildly embarrassed to have witnessed such a personal moment and Jack feels faint blood rush to his cheeks. Singh taps at his datapad, murmuring, “Captain, the airlift is just north, on the other side of the road tunnel. They are ready for Mina’s evac.”
“Ah, very well. Are we ready to move her?” Jack asks, heading back into the tent and striding over to Mina’s cot, where the heavily injured agent is strapped in, her normally vibrant dark skin looking horrifically pale and wan, her breath puffing against the oxygen mask. Despite the three biotic vials strapped to her arms, the bandage around her neck is still a bloody, uncomfortably deep red, and behind her eyelids, her eyes shift and move wildly.
“She is as ready as she will be, Captain,” Aiden says solemnly, and Jack nods to the other agents, taking his place at the handle by her right foot. The agents form up, readying their grips, and their captain states, “Lift on three. One...two...three!”
Gabriel glances behind him as Jack and three of his medical operatives haul the injured agent out of the med tent, stepping in sync as they head north to the road tunnel. The commander heaves another sigh as he watches them go, his gaze lingering on Mina’s ashen face, but he scowls to himself and continues towards Ana and Reinhardt.
The lieutenant and second lieutenant both look at their commander, Ana putting on her steady frown and Reinhardt looking nervously worried - if Gabriel’s face wasn’t making both expressions simultaneously, he’d probably chuckle at their almost exaggerated looks.
But the platinum-certified disaster called for controlled nerves and even thoughts.
“...How bad is it?” Gabriel asks them as he approaches, gaze flicking to the tent and back. Ana and Reinhardt glance at each other nervously, before the first lieutenant mutters in a low whispers, “Birth record confirms he’s seventeen - he’ll be eighteen in three months.”
Well, shit.
“The U.N. will treat him fair,” Gabriel says solemnly, “The organization is about as anti-child prosecution as they come -”
“Ze FBI es already trying to claim jurisdiction,” Reinhardt says, in a tone that is shockingly, startlingly still for the massive Crusader. Ana nods, adding, “Even if we put him on an international trial, the United States will still pressure for a life sentence, bare minimum. They haven’t done the full ballistics yet, but he matches the description for the enforcer who shot the covert DEA agents a month ago.”
Well, double shit.
“Zhey will try to charge him on zhat, even if you let him go,” Reinhardt concludes, as Gabriel accepts the datapad from Ana, looking at the files the lieutenants have already managed to pull together in just a few short minutes. Both lieutenants look grim as Ana sighs heavily, “It’s extremely likely he’s killed people, Gabriel. An aim and eye like that? The misses are a choice, to say the least.”
“You think maybe we could use that?” Gabriel asks, flicking over the virtual copy of the birth certificate, a Santa Fe Crisis record of the “McCormick” family being checked in at an emergency shelter, medical records of shots and vaccinations, a school suspension form, photos from the DEA and FBI investigations of Deadlock arms trades.
“I doubt it,” Ana says, rubbing at her forehead again, “It’s not the kind of argument that would really hold up in court. And it could easily be twisted against him - if he’s the one who shot five people in Juarez, then that was just as much of a choice.”
Well, triple shit.
“...So what you’re saying is he’s talented,” Gabriel jokes dryly and Ana shoots a bitter glare at him, chiding, “Gabriel, now is not the time for your humor -”
“I can only cope with so much, Ana,” Gabriel replies lowly, “Let me make at least one.”
“We are looking at another Basket Ogress situation,” Reinhardt says slowly, and Gabriel flicks his gaze up at his second lieutenant, muttering dryly, “No, they’re completely different.”
“A child in lifetime imprisonment? Ostensibly for a life situation beyond their control?” Ana states darkly, her gaze fierce and furious, “They’re extremely similar.”
“No,” Gabriel mutters as he starts towards the door flap of the isolation tent, adding quietly:
“Basket Ogress was incapable of making a decision of her own free will.”
The Strike-Commander of Overwatch opens the tent and enters, followed by his two lieutenants, although Reinhardt has to duck slightly to enter.
The sunlight manages to be strong enough to filter in through the off-white plastic sheeting, so the inside feels like a contained starburst, bright and creamy-white, about as unintimidating as an interrogation tent could ever be. There are only two seats, both unfoldable stool things, short and awkward, designed more for the med tent than whatever this platinum-certified bullshit of a situation is.
Sitting on one of them
Coated in red sandstone dust and asphalt grime
His bright orange bandana and dirty white t-shirt splattered in blood that’s dripping from his own nose and a large cut on his cheek
His weedy, dark brown hair looking ragged and untamed, as if no one has properly cut it in eight months
But most of all
His eyes dark and sunk with hazy shadows the sunlight cannot break through
Is a stringy, lean-cut, tanned teenager, hands cuffed behind his back, cracking his neck slightly, before he lolls his head back towards them, a smugass grin gracing his bruised and battered face, dark eyes keen and sharp in the filtered light as he taunts:
“Looks like we got a new sheriff in town.”
“Sorry, chico, but I’m actually quite old at this,” Gabriel snorts, seating himself on the other stool. He raises an eyebrow as he assess the smug kid in front of him, casting a sharp, skeptical look over him. Gabriel remarks slowly, “But I will admit this is my first time arresting a child.”
“Is that why I’m sittin’ in here all on my lonesome while the rest o’ my posse is gettin’ herded up?” the boy asks coolly, but there’s a slight sneer to his lip that Gabriel does not miss. The Strike-Commander scowls darkly, saying with a touch of ice to his tone:
“No, you’re here alone because you shot and critically injured six of my agents.”
“Ooooh, that’s a full round right there,” Jesse chuckles, but there’s a vicious vividness to his eyes as he adds with a snide cruelness, “I was worried I missed one.”
Ana makes a sharp, angry noise behind Gabriel, and Reinhardt lets out a low, growling rumble, but Gabriel snaps at them, “If you two are going to rattle like that, then make like a snake and get out of here.”
“Those are some big guard dogs ya got there,” Jesse grins, and Gabriel flicks a furious, liquid sunflared gaze at the kid, snapping, “Keep running your mouth and you’ll see how they bite.”
“Oh, I ain’t too worried,” Jesse snickers, his gaze turning quicksilver as he shoots off:
“I’ve put down plenty o’ big dogs in my day -”
Gabriel can feel Ana and Reinhardt tense behind him and his own hackles rise as he snaps, “You li’l shit -”
“God dammit, Gabe, I thought you said you wanted to be together on this.”
All four people in the tent freeze as the door flap bursts open
And a fucking hurricane of a captain enters.
Gabriel turns a wide-eyed, gawking stare at Jack, who glowers over all of them before making a deadpan expression at Ana, asking, “Really, Ana? You just let him waltz in here and just start this shit without me?”
Jesse ogles at the fucking Captain America knock-off who has entered the interrogation tent, just as tall and as broad as Commander Papito over there, only dressed in star-spangle bright blue like the other two, several biotic fields hanging from a belt around his waist. Mr. Blonde-haired, Blue-eyed turns that storm-studded gaze towards him, making a strange, assessing expression before -
Jack suddenly strides to Jesse and drops to a knee besides the cuffed teenager, peering straight at his face and -
“Qué chingados,” Jesse stammers, skidding a little, nearly falling off the seat as Steve Rogers squints hard at him and suddenly there’s a steady left hand bracing his back and pushing him back upright on the seat, a calmer right hand tilting Jesse’s head and -
“The fuck are ya doin’?” Jesse demands, practically hissing, wiggling and squirming to try and get away, but Jack just huffs sourly, “I’m checking to see if your nose is broken - hold still, you limp string bean.”
Gabriel chokes on a laugh as Ana snorts and Reinhardt coughs a short, hoarse bark.
“‘Limp string bean??’” Jesse stammers, still struggling to get away from those steadying hands and intensely laser-focused blue eyes, but the captain sighs angrily, “Sit up straight, you chicken nugget, otherwise these stitches are gonna hurt worse than they have to -”
“Whoa, hey, what stitches, what,” Jesse states as Jack reaches for a pouch clipped to his back. The medic-soldier undoes the snaps, pulling out a wipe as he grumbles, “Can’t believe you just left him here with all this dirt in his goddamn cut, Gabi -”
“‘Gabi??’” Jesse snorts until the wipe is shoved unceremoniously under his nose and across his blood-splattered lips, causing the teenager to sputter and cough as Gabriel mutters dryly, “I did have like twenty other arrestees to deal with, Juan.”
“And you decided to neglect the most important one - how many times do I have to tell you to sit still, you damp french fry,” Jack starts to address his commander before growling another low, absurd warning to the teenager in front of him. Jack drops the wipe on the ground as his hand dives to the medkit for another and he scrubs that one across the cut on Jesse’s cheek as the boy howls, “Joder, pendejo! That fuckin’ stings, ya asshole -”
“Oh, so you just want it to get infected?? Do you want to rot to death in jail from gangrene on your cheek?” Jack argues right back before snapping a hand out to Gabriel, demanding, “Cuff key.”
“Uh...Ana has them...but he’s not free to go -” Gabriel starts to say, glancing at Ana who shrugs slightly but Jack just sighs darkly, “I know that. I need to reset his shoulder.”
“...Wait, what,” Gabriel states as Ana asks, “His shoulder is dislocated?”
“And you all just left him here, in pain, with a bloody nose and a popped joint from when our agents tackled him to the fucking pavement,” Jack explains, clearly upset with everyone in the tent, including himself. He gestures to Ana emphatically, snapping, “Key.”
The first lieutenant makes a skeptical pout, but leans over and drops the key in his palm. Jack reaches around Jesse, who is still gasping, “What the fuck is happening -”
Jack pulls the cuffs off and Jesse’s left arm falls rather uselessly to his side. Suddenly, the medic-soldier looks the boy dead in the eye and states dryly, “Grit those teeth, kid.”
“What are you - OH FUCK,” Jesse hollers as Jack wedges his right hand up against Jesse’s arm, just below the shoulder joint and pushes in forcefully, snapping the aching joint back in place. Jesse’s arm throbs as needles of pain ribbon through his arm, all the way down to his fingertips, but he barely gets a second to breathe before there’s a sharp sting in his right arm -
“MAKE HIM STOP,” Jesse wheezes at the Overwatch Strike-Commander, who is grinning like this is the funniest shit he’s ever seen, when suddenly the sharp stinging transforms into a flood of sweet relief, soothing calm brushing across Jesse’s stiff, throbbing cut on his cheek, through his dull, stuffed, cracked nose, into his sore, achy shoulder joint, and across the multiple bruises and cuts around his body.
“...Bi-biotic fluid?” Jesse gasps, looking at the utterly bizarre man beside him, as he shuffles through the medkit. The man nods slightly, but his gaze is laser-focused on the contents of the kit, even as he mutters, “And nanobots. Your nose wasn’t broken but it was definitely tweaked - and all that cocaine you’ve been snorting hasn’t helped it at all.”
“What,” Gabriel demands, but Jack ignores him, addressing Jesse with, “But you’re young, and while most of your ethmoid is probably pretty fucked, we can at least save the integrity of the outer bone and cartilage with some light nanobot therapy. In time, the remaining parts should recover nicely and save that face of yours from looking too ugly.”
“Are you giving him a goddamn prescription,” Gabriel half-states, half-asks, half-gawks and Reinhardt mutters, “Jack, you are not a doctor -”
“I’m sorry, who is the only remotely-trained medical officer in this tent?” Jack asks and only silence answers him. Jesse glances back at the Strike-Commander who just kinda...half-nods, looking like he’s conceding the point to the man called Jack. Jack sighs, “That’s what I thought,” before giving Jesse a devilish, knowing smirk, and then refocusing his gaze on the medkit.
“Is this a joke?” Jesse asks the air and only the woman - Ana, he remembers - responds quietly, “I was wondering the same thing.”
“I never tell jokes,” Jack wisecracks sarcastically which gets -
Which gets Gabriel to double over in a strange snort-wheeze-gurgle laughter.
The sound is surprisingly warm, like bubbling sunshine, but all Jesse can do is gawk utterly as the thirty-three year-old Gabriel Reyes - Strike-Commander of Overwatch, ruthless killer of Omnic Central Cores, capturer of multiple God Programs, hero of humankind, one of the last living American supersoldiers, a man solidly 6 feet tall and 200 pounds of muscle - almost falls out of his tinyass plastic seat, snorting and coughing a hacking giggle, his whole body shaking with laughter, dark cotton beanie askew. Behind him, Ana, the woman with the beautiful tanned skin and slick dark hair, blue Overwatch coat and swirling Horus tattoo, pinches at her forehead as she groans loudly, “Jack, you need to be stopped.”
Beside her, the hulking giant of a man, long blonde hair and intense blue eyes, crisp beard and royal Crusader armor - Reinhardt Wilhelm in the flesh and rockets - tilts his head back and roars with laughter, causing the whole tent and Jesse’s bones to rattle and shake.
Next to him, the blonde medical captain, who could only be the other Overwatch American supersoldier Jack Morrison, gives Jesse a mischievous grin before his hands reappear from the medkit with -
“No no no nononono needles no,” Jesse immediately starts stammering as he sees the pre-prepped stitches kit in Jack’s hands, sliding as far as he can on the plastic seat. Jack stops, scowling a little, but there’s a softness to his expression, and Jesse is suddenly keenly aware of the silence in the tent. He glances to Gabriel, who -
Jesse thinks time stops.
There’s a strange expression on the Strike-Commander’s face - a deeply still affect that cuts across his gilded gaze, eyes looking long and bittersweet, mouth turned to a faint, sad smile, a small set of wrinkles curling around his eyelids and -
Jesse hasn’t seen an expression like that since Pa, lying on his deathbed, surrounded by tubes and monitors and beeping machines, held Jesse’s hand and apologized, apologized, whispered how sorry he and Mamá were for leavin’ him alone, how they both loved Jesse so, so much -
Jack sees his opportunity as Jesse stills, dark eyes looking lost, before Jack’s left hand dives under Jesse’s chin and grips it fiercely -
“NO NO STOP NO -” Jesse hollers, trying to break free, but Jack murmurs calmly, “If you sit still, it will be easy. I have numbing shots if you want one -”
“Jack, go easy on him.”
Jesse stops squirming and Jack glances up towards Gabriel, who still has that soft, bittersweet expression on his face. The Strike-Commander asks his captain, “Can’t you use steristrips or the bio-protein seal instead?”
“...I could, but I’m worried he’ll rip those open or get them wet,” Jack says, but he looks back at Jesse’s face, assessing the deep cut calmly. The boy squirms again, uncomfortable under the resolved gaze, but Jack finally sighs, “Well, I can try them. If they fail, we can return to the stitches.”
Jesse breathes a long, heavy sigh of relief as Jack releases his chin and drops the stitches packet into the medkit, his hands returning instead with a roll of tape and some scissors. Jack frowns, muttering, “Look straight ahead, kid.”
Jesse pouts a bit, but turns his head forward, looking at Gabriel, trying not to get too hung up on the strange, awkward warmth wrapping around his heart, but it’s hard when steady, calm hands are placing slim strips of biotic tape over his wound and those eyes - like raw, amber sunshine - are watching him with a reserved sort of gentleness -
He’s still just a kid, Gabriel thinks, watching as Jack quietly and carefully places the strips across the cut on Jesse’s face, but he also notes how Jesse sits awfully still, how the boy pouts slightly with the intensity of his concentration to not move, how his fingers flex and relax, flex and relax with tension.
And then
Gabriel asks the only question he knows he needs to:
“...Why did you pull your shots?”
The atmosphere in the sun-drenched tent shifts immediately.
Jesse freezes.
Time unravels.
Jack’s hands on his cheek pause their steady, watchface movements.
The boy - only seventeen, only a child, covered in dust and blood and scratches and bruises, holsterin’ an aim deadlier than any Gabriel’s ever seen, carrying a weight heavier than any child should ever carry, living a life he has no business livin’ -
The boy - a sharpshooter in name and deed - stares Gabriel dead in the eye and states darkly:
“...I didn’t pull ‘em.”
And Jesse -
He doesn’t expect it
But Gabriel smirks and snorts in laughter, saying, “If you’re the one who killed five people in that arms trade that went sideways in Juarez, then you sure as shit pulled your shots today.”
Jesse gawks slightly, causing Gabriel to tap something on the datapad in his hand. He flips the device around so that it faces Jesse, and taps another button, starting the video.
Jesse remembers.
The deal had been an easy one - some ex-rurales fighters in Mexico wanted some more guns, were complainin’ that Portero wasn’t “defending them rightly” from banditos in the outer regions of Mexico, complainin’ that Portero was only interested in keepin’ Mexico City and all the fat cat politicians safe in the Post-Crisis. So Deadlock had made the trade easy…
‘Cept when they got down there, it had all been a trap by the Mexican and American governments.
Jesse watches the video, shot from a secret body cam on one of the undercover agents. He watches as shouts escalate between the agents and the Deadlock members. He watches as guns are drawn, insults exchanged, and -
He watches as five perfect shots - clear and hard and high like the sun at perfect noon - ring out through the warehouse in the video.
And before the dead agent wearing the camera falls dead -
He watches as his own figure appears in the background, behind the other Deadlock members, spinning the revolver before he pops the cylinder open and starts slotting in more of the tungsten cold plasma bullets.
“So let me ask you again, kid.”
The voice of the Strike-Commander isn’t hard, it isn’t edgy, it isn’t cold-cutting or angry raw.
It is
Surprisingly kind and clear, surprisingly patient
As if he is simply trying to understand
One gunslinger to another -
“Why did you pull your shots today?”
All four adults watch him closely, and Jesse thinks a hard, ugly feeling settles around his neck like a sinking weight -
“Obviously he admires us.”
Jesse thinks something in his mind shatters and breaks. He flicks his gaze to Jack, who is grinning like the Cheshire Cat that caught Alice in a conundrum, and the captain chuckles in clear Spanish, “¿Aún un bandito todavía puede admirar a los héroes? (tn: even a bandit still can admire the heroes?)”
“I do not admire you!” Jesse stammers, the hard, ugly feeling dispersing for one of shock and disbelief because how can these adults - heroes of the world, heroes of humankind, heroes who crushed the apocalypse itself how - how can these heroes act this ridiculous -
Suddenly, there’s a warm, sunshiny chuckle from Gabriel, and Jesse whips his head towards the Strike-Commander as he says teasingly, “Yeah, he doesn’t admire you, Jack - clearly, he admires the badassery of my dual shotguns.”
Jesse feels his lip curl in horror and dismay before he can stop himself, snapping, “Joder, pendejo, I never said that -”
“Ahem,” Reinhardt interrupts, placing a hand on his massive chestplate as he states heroically, “Clearly, zhees clever young man admires ze pure boldness of my rockets -”
“What the hell,” Jesse says, his voice cracking as he glances between the three men before pointing a finger at Ana on the side, “The only one here with the sick no-scope skills is her, pinche pendejos.”
There’s still, stunned silence in the tent, until Ana grins wryly at him, saying dryly, “I changed my mind - I like him.”
“Ana, no, wait -” Gabriel starts to say, but Jack just nods slowly, murmuring, “That’s fair.”
“Jack, wait, not you too -” the Strike-Commander struggles to get his team under control, but Reinhardt protests loudly, “It es not fair - I cannot do headshots.”
“Put a scope on your hammer,” Ana chuckles, to which Reinhardt mutters contemplatively, “...Do you think zhat would work?”
“Worth a shot?” Jack says as Gabriel groans, burying his head in his hands as he mumbles, “Dios dame paciencia.”
“You ever wanna learn to shoot a rifle, kid?” Ana asks Jesse, who is still gawking because how in the Devil’s Hellhole did these people manage to save the world, did Torbjörn do all the actual work, how do they even function right what -
“I - I know how ta shoot a rifle!” Jesse half-shouts, half-stammers, and Ana’s dark eyes light up with a bright glitter as she murmurs, “Oooh, even better, we’re halfway there -”
“What about shotguns?” Gabriel asks curiously, lifting his head from his hands and Jesse scowls darkly, saying dryly, “I know how ta shoot a shotgun, but I’m not insane enough ta do it like ya do -”
“Ahhh, but what about a rocket hammer?” Reinhardt says sagaciously, as if he just caught Jesse in a trap. Jesse gives him a disbelieving, deadpan squint as he mutters, “I - how in the hell you gonna shoot a hammer?”
“Oh ho, looks like I have some teaching to do!” Reinhardt replies proudly and Jesse is pretty sure time has unraveled into a pile of thread on the cracked earth below his feet. The cowboy gawks, looking openly between all of them, before -
The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself:
“How in the Devil’s rodeo did y’all stop the goddamn robot apocalypse like this??”
There’s another shocked, still silence, until -
There’s a cold, stingy spray blasting Jesse in the right side of his face -
“HOLY SAINTED CRACKER WHAT,” Jesse shouts as Jack ‘liberally’ sprays the bio-protein sealant over the cut and the strips, effectively gluing it closed with a special medical seal that will be integrated into the new scab. The captain drops the canister back in the medkit, chuckling lowly, “We got lucky, I guess.”
“Ain’t no such thing as luck,” Gabriel starts to say on autopilot, and all three of the others chant back in tri-stereo sound:
“Just good genetics.”
Jesse just gawks but Gabriel makes an unamused, dead expression that reeks of “I need a long vacation.” The Strike-Commander gives Jesse a blank, “can you believe this shit” look and Jesse -
The chuckle is out of his mouth before he can stop himself.
“Do you see what I gotta put up with?” Gabriel asks the kid with a sly smirk, which gets Ana to lightly whap him across the beanie. Reinhardt strikes a pose, putting his fists on his hips as he laughs brightly, “We won ze Crisis because we are ze bravest!”
“No, we won the Crisis because we out-played them,” Ana corrects him, but it’s -
It’s Jack who grins wide, saying with a low rumble of snark:
“No, we won because we have those sick, no-scope skills.”
There’s stunned, still silence in the sun-filtered tent until -
Jesse bursts into laughter.
The sound that escapes the kid’s mouth is bright, like the sun at high noon, a loud, happy snort-giggle thing that bubbles like a spring cracking through baked desert clay earth. This time, the boy actually slips off his seat, sliding sideways as he cracks up, light breaking through his bruised seams, hiccupping slightly as he thuds onto the ground, and all four adults watch him in awed quiet as he rolls slightly on the ground before -
“I’m gonna die in jail, ain’t I?”
The giggles and snorts and hiccups turn into a sort of pained, ugly feeling, hysterics slipping around his neck like a sinking weight, and Jesse feels a sharp ache shoot up his stiff, throbbing arm, feels his cheek sting with every laughing, cracking sob, and all his bravado breaks and shatters, crumbling into dust, and he thinks -
Mamá, Pa, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I fucked up, I knew I was fuckin’ up but -
Terry had told him he was the deadest shot the gang leader had ever seen, Terry had told him he could make good money for his Pa’s cancer treatment, just by escortin’ the drug mules, Terry had told him he cleaned the guns real good, Terry had told him he could handle whatever weapons he wanted, Terry had told him he was the only person the gang leader trusted with his new, pulse revolver - custom-made with hafnium-carbide coatings on the parts - and -
There’s only a cold cell or a bullet with yer name on it at the end of the sunset.
He ain’t been around adults like this since his parents died and -
The world is hard and ugly and cold like the winter sun at high noon, all dust and cement and rotting buildings, slick Crisis guns and broken Crisis veterans and new rocket motorcycles and stacks of cocaine and boxes of rocket launchers -
“Why didn’t y’all just fuckin’ shoot me and be done with it?”
He wishes they had just shot him instead of tacklin’ him, instead of cuffin’ him, instead of sittin’ him here and dressin’ his wounds and makin’ him laugh again -
The boy buries his head in his hand and curls up around himself, letting the hard, ugly feeling dig him a hole in the cracked, dried earth and -
Jack watches as Ana covers her mouth in horror, squeezing her eyes shut. Reinhardt looks physically ill, his blue eyes watering at the edges. But Gabriel -
Gabriel shifts to his feet, takes two steps forward, and crouches by Jesse curled up around himself.
Jesse feels the presence get closer - it isn’t hard-edged or angry raw, but
It is surprisingly kind and clear, surprisingly patient
Surprisingly gentle.
“...I was aimin’ fer her shoulder,” the boy half-explains, half-whimpers to the man crouching beside him, pulling his knees closer as he whispers, “I didn’t mean ta hit her neck.”
“I can’t aim for shit,” Gabriel’s voice is stern but warm, like a softer sunshine, “So if you want advice about how your intentional miss missed its intention, you’re gonna have to talk to Ana or Jack about that.”
Jesse snorts, but Gabriel Reyes - Strike-Commander of Overwatch, ruthless killer of Omnic Central Cores, capturer of multiple God Programs, hero of humankind, one of the last living American supersoldiers, a man solidly 6 feet tall and 200 pounds of muscle - says quietly:
“And it don’t mean shit if you say all that to me, kid - Mina is the one you need to apologize to.”
Jesse freezes.
Time reravels.
He lifts his head, eyes searching that scarred face, beard dusty from the mission today, beanie askew, but eyes like liquid gold melting with a bold, bright warmth. There’s a sound to Jesse’s right, and he glances up as Jack seats himself on the plastic stool thing, blue eyes mischievous and glinting, like when the river in the gorge catches the sunlight just right, a slightly crooked smirk on his face as the captain chuckles, “Don’t worry - Mina is about the nicest person on the team. And she really likes pastries, so if you get her a box of something that’s good quality, she’ll forgive you in a heartbeat. Even better - if you can make something from scratch, she’ll even show you how to use our new plasma rifles.”
“I...huh?” Jesse asks because his words, his mind, usually quicksilver and cold plasma bullets, are failing him on every front, crumbling to dust and ash, cracking like the broken, heat-warped pavement of Route 66 running through the gorge -
“I can teach you how to make buñuelos,” Gabriel offers, scowling a little as he concentrates, and Jesse thinks his mind is runnin’ on empty at this point. The Strike-Commander adds slowly, “I also know how to make mi abuela’s torrijas, if you wanna learn about those.”
Up on the seat, the captain shrugs, muttering, “All I got is crepes. And cornbread.”
“I know how to make Umm Ali,” Ana suggests, with Reinhardt chiming in, “I can make berliners!”
Jesse openly stares at the faces around him, murmuring, “Are y’all insane?”
“Listen, kid, do you wanna learn how to make desserts to apologize to Mina, or do you want to rot in jail?” Gabriel asks, but he’s got a vivid, vibrant smirk on his face and a quick glint to his eyes. Jesse frowns, mullin’ it over before he asks cautiously:
“...This...ain’t a trick?”
“The only trick here is that any of us think we can bake,” Jack retorts dryly, which gets Gabriel to shoot him a snarky glare as he grumbles, “I can bake -”
“Buy the store-made desserts,” Jack mouths to Jesse, and Gabriel snaps, “I saw that, asshole.”
“I’m only good at shootin’ people.”
The words are out of Jesse’s mouth before he can stop himself.
All four adults look at him solemnly, but Jesse -
He has to say it, he has to tell them, they have to know what they’re bargainin’ for, he can’t do nothin’ right ‘cept bury people in the earth, put his Mamá and Pa in the ground, put shady drug dealers and gang-traitors and DEA agents into coffins, sling a revolver and let the glare of the sun break people’s skulls with a bullet in them -
“Look, you’ll never know if you’re good at baking until you try.”
Jesse turns to Gabriel, who grins at him, adding, “I always thought I was shit at things until I tried them.”
“And then he found out he was God’s gift in everything except aiming,” Jack chuckles wryly, which gets Gabriel to reach out and smack at Jack’s leg. Jack laughs, saying brightly, “Also he snores.”
“John Michael Morrison, I do not want to hear you complaining about snoring,” Gabriel snaps tartly, which only gets Jack to laugh harder, smirking a wide shit-eating grin at Jesse and -
“But why?”
Jesse doesn’t understand - the words slip from him, as honest as the cracked earth and broken asphalt, dry as the sun - he doesn’t understand why they would want someone like him, someone who’s only done wrong, who got lost in the gorge, who got deadlocked into killin’ and -
“Because you still have the potential to discover what you’re truly gifted at.”
Gabriel’s smile is as honest as the cracked earth and broken asphalt, as warm as the sun.
And then the Strike-Commander smirks smugly:
“And we need more contestants for Top Chef Overwatch Edition.”